Sacrifice in Descent
by freshneverfrozen
Summary: When Skyrim's savior finds himself mired in a desperate game in which the prize is his soul and his good name, his estranged sister cum Morag Tong agent rides in to save the day. Despite the help of an ornery mage and twin werewolves, she may just find that the price of saving the Dragonborn is higher than she ever imagined. Drama/Tragedy/minor-flirtation, rating may change


_Hello again! May I present to you "Sacrifice in Descent". I'm still in the process of reworking MLOT but I had this idea rolling around in my head so I decided to go ahead and write it. The amount of work MLOT needs is ridiculous but I'm slowly making my through it. The length of this one shouldn't be near what MLOT was but I'm hoping you'll enjoy it just the same. __This is definitely an intro chapter and things should pick up in the next few. I wanted to write something that didn't revolve solely around the exploits of the Dragonborn so your main characters are going to include an OC, Marcurio, Farkas, and Vilkas._

_Anyway, I'll leave most of what I have to say for the end._

_Disclaimer: Skyrim and its characters do not belong to me. They belong to Bethesda and all the other people who created them and hold legal rights._

_Oh, and I credit the amazing, amazing Beth Rowley's song "Nobody's Fault but Mine" for serving as inspiration for this story. Seriously, go listen to it._

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It was said by people all across Tamriel that the best horses in Morrowind were bred by demons, gifts from the princes of Oblivion to the daedra-worshipping Dunmer as payment for their religious devotion. The best of these horses were lean, leggy creatures built for speed and maneuverability that could propel them across the rocky terrain of the Ashland. If they were pushed hard enough, it was said they could outrun the gods themselves. Never before had this theory been so thoroughly put to the test than on the twelfth of Frostfall as a lone rider thundered across the Morrowind border and into the stark, cold mountains of Skyrim.

The tireless grey stallion pressed onward, guided by the harsh leather heels in his sides that kicked and cursed him each time he dared slow his pace. Lather, thick and white, flew back from the horse's gasping mouth and heaving, sweaty sides, straight up onto the legs of the rider with the woman making no motion to brush the froth away. Muttered prayers to the Daedric prince Mephala were sent up to the heavens in a tongue foreign to Skyrim. The words, barely whispers to be heard over the rhythmic pounding of hooves, were quiet prayers asking for strength for her and the horse both.

"_Agus na dearth an linn, Mephala chela, fola nas domai en bhairr_."

_Give us strength and speed, oh Prince Mephala, may your humble servant reach her goal in time_. Over and over again these words of supplication were uttered from the rider's lips, almost sing-song in their practiced recitation.

It was not until the haze of distant smoke stacks and the smell of lake water pervaded the early morning air that the rider finally halted her fervent request. The Nord city of Riften lay just ahead, tucked snuggly in a valley along the gray banks of Lake Honrich. Many times had the rider heard of this city, though she had never before visited it. It was a haven for crime and thievery without reason, murder and subterfuge without honor. The bitter mix of disgust and relief proved hard to swallow for the rider and as such, she merely urged her heaving steed further down the mountain. The normally surefooted animal stumbled and slid from exhaustion, fumbling with nearly every step, but the rider pushed him onward. No more time could be wasted.

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It was too early in the morning for any respectable Imperial to be seated at a bar but the young mage sat there anyway. He twiddled the thumbs of his tan hands so that his boredom would have been apparent had anyone else been there to witness it. He ordered neither drink nor food. Not that it would have been prepared at this hour anyway. The young man was waiting, and rather impatiently at that. Her letter had said she would meet him here today. He had received it two weeks ago and, add to that another week's delivery time and he was certain the woman had been traveling for at least three weeks. The mage could only hope that it was not too late; his information was decreasing in value the longer he sat on it.

Marcurio sighed quietly and ran a nervous hand through his dark hair. Fingers that could normally be used for burning and freezing enemies instead smoothed the black strands here and there with expert precision. Idly, he tapped his manicured nails against the bar, stopping only when he realized his nerves were getting the better of him. He wondered how much the woman had changed in the twenty years since he had seen her last. He had been but a boy of six when he had met her, or more accurately when she had saved him from certain death at the hands of Dunmer bandits after his parents had been slain. He had promised her then in the gapped tooth, lisping voice of childhood that he would return the favor someday. Now that that day had come, he only hoped that it would be enough.

For several years, he had been somewhat smitten with his savoir, as children were prone to do, and had written her a letter every few months. She had always been kind enough to respond, humoring him like some beloved older sibling separated by time and distance. He knew that she had been living in Morrowind for the past twenty years and she had always told him through her letters which city she would be moving to next. "_In case you need saving_", she had always written. The letters had eventually dwindled in number but thankfully he had always had some idea where she was. Twelve months earlier, he had received a letter from her out of the blue. Her brother – he had not known until then that she even had a brother – had come to Skyrim and she had asked Marcurio to keep his eyes open for the wayward relative.

A loud and uncomfortable rumbling in his stomach at that moment made him wonder if maybe he should eat something after all. It might serve to quiet his churning gut which was becoming consistently more unsettled the more he thought on his past. Standing, Marcurio pushed himself away from the empty bar and walked around behind it. The Argonian matron who normally ran it likely would not mind if he pinched bit of bread and cheese from her cupboards. He had always made sure to pay his rent on time since he had been staying here. Breakfast for the morning was just another number he could add to his tab later. For a few hopeless moments, the mage fumbled around in the cabinets behind the bar and was rather distraught to find that most of the bread had been thrown out the night before. It appeared that there would be no breakfast after all.

"Oh, curses!" the mage huffed and sagged against the bar. He had only just leaned against the wood when the door to his right creaked open and figure cloaked in crimson stepped inside. Momentary surprise filled Marcurio until he realized that this was exactly who he had been waiting on. Standing across the room from him now, she was shorter than he remembered. With him being a full grown man, he guessed she might reach his nose; as a child she had seemed so much taller, almost regally so. The dark red cloak she wore was familiar to him as well, as day she had rescued him she had been swathed in one just like that which she wore now.

He said nothing at first, which in and of itself was odd for Marcurio, for he usually had little trouble with socialization. This, however, was different. A few letters over the course of his life really equated to nothing. He did not know this woman, not really. What he did know for certain was that twenty years ago she had seemed kind and gentle and impossibly dangerous all at the same time. And from what he could tell, she was still very much the same.

"You've grown," the woman said quietly and the mage was positive he could actually _hear_ the smile in her voice. She sounded almost…_fond_.

Marcurio could only nod, his lips locked as his eyes watched one of the woman's hands as it went up to slide back the hood of her cloak. The cloth fell back to reveal long hair that was so fine and blond it appeared almost silver in the dim light. As a child, he had remembered that same hair as being white but looking at it now he supposed that its true color had just faded from his memory. Slightly pointed ears, the ears of a half-breed, protruded from the sides of her head. He had not remembered that fact either. He had thought she was fully human.

Looking at her face, he found himself taken aback by how youthful she appeared. She looked to be almost the same age as he, an observation that his logic told him was misleading seeing as how she should have aged at least twenty years since their original meeting. He guessed her youthful appearance owed its credit to the Mer blood within her veins. That blood was clearly mixed with either that of a Nord or Imperial and to his vexation, he could not be sure which. Marcurio had heard that half-breeds like her could live for several hundred years, far longer than their purely human relatives. She stood before him now, silent and observant, studying him just as he studied her.

Unwilling to speak just yet, he continued to watch her. He noticed that her eyes were so dark green that they seemed nearly pitch black. _She's half Bosmer, _he realized, proud of his deduction. Those hard eyes of hers were the sole unnerving feature on a face that could otherwise only be described as cherubic, especially for a mer.

To the mage, though he was a little ashamed to admit it, she looked like a five year old child that had been rolled downhill from the Throat of the World a few dozen times too many, leaving her skin scared and nicked and weathered. In contrast to that warrior's skin were cheeks so full and round that it seemed as if she had suffered the misfortune of never losing her baby fat. Add to that the equally full lips of a mouth that wasn't quite wide enough to really be pleasing and you had yourself a woman who resembled a rather perturbed looking baby-faced daedra.

A particularly damaging scar split her top lip and stretched down to her chin and Marcurio found himself wondering if someone had just missed her with a meat cleaver. The hands that twitched awkwardly by her side were small but masculine, with nails that had been broken down to the quick and fingers covered with a variety of scars as gruesome as the ones on her face. Her left hand was badly burned, its pitiful excuse for epidermis looking more like wax than skin. The fair skin above that hand was tattooed up to her shoulder, the spiraling array of daedric symbols disappearing beneath the woman's crimson armor. In more than a few places parts of the dark ink had been reduced to barely tinted skin, puckered up here and there with scar tissue that crudely interrupted the intricate decoration.

All in all, Marcurio did not know whether to be disappointed or frightened by his boyhood idol's physical appearance.

"I hear you're a full blown mage now," the woman announced, forcing her way through the awkward quiet of the empty tavern. Ghosting her way over to the bar, she came to sit in front of him and Marcurio wondered idly if he should offer to pour her a drink. Settling onto the stool, she added, "College educated, at that."

"Yes," he replied mechanically in a voice that did not sound like his own, "I found a place there after you rescued me."

"And you eventually found yourself in Riften it seems." It was a statement, not a question. He suspected that this woman could read him like an open book and he'd be willing to bet his last gold Septim that she had already figured him to be in a town like this working as a spell for hire. Oddly enough, she did not seem to judge him for this as many travelers did. Many people saw him as pompous and dangerous when really he was just trying to make his way in a land suspicious of mages. This set Marcurio's spiraling nerves at ease and as the seconds ticked by he proved unable to resist the urge to relax in this woman's presence.

"Ah…yes, I've been here for a while. Good thing, too, or else I might not have been here to send you that letter."

"I'm glad you did, Marcurio. I appreciate it, truly." She leaned forward against the bar, draping her tattooed arm across it casually, and asked, "So, what have you found out about my brother?"

"He's, ah, been busy from what I hear."

"Busy being the Dragonborn?"

The mage grinned for a moment and then shrugged. "I only came to know him by way of gossip. The tales that man inspires are absurd!" Marcurio gave a rough snort that illustrated clearly enough his inability to understand precisely _why_ people were so enamored by the Dragonborn.

The woman offered a small, noncommittal shrug, replying, "He's always been like that. People follow Uriel though he's never asked them to."

"Rather meek, your brother. At least it seems that way. You're lucky I even noticed him at all. Recently, however, he's gained the wrong sort of attention."

"Your letter said he's wanted for murder." There was a distant sadness in the dark shadows of her eyes that had not been there before. It was strangely at odds with the grimness of her scars and Marcurio was taken aback by its sudden appearance. He did not know whether to comfort her or continue on with the discussion. Somehow, he doubted there was little he could do for someone like her so he decided to power on with their discussion.

He did his best to swallow the lump of regret at delivering such news that sat heavily in his throat, threatening to sink lower if he let it.

"People are talking about the Dark Brotherhood, you know –"

The woman took it in stride. "So your letter said."

"Yes, I suppose it did. The Dragonborn, _Uriel_," he corrected himself, "is long gone from Riften though."

"Did he have any –"

"Associates?" Marcurio smirked and watched as the woman fidgeted uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm getting there," he told her gently, "He was knee deep into the Thieves Guild from what I've heard."

The woman made a face, her distaste for thieves showing clearly. She scoffed, "Bah! One would think that after two hundred years he might learn a lesson or two."

_Two hundred years? Gods, she is older than she looks. _In his experience, elves rarely spoke about their ages. It was a testy subject that was usually mired in jealousy from other races. Even so, two hundred years was quite old for a half-breed. Usually, they didn't make it past that. It was hard to survive so long in Tamriel. To do so meant that a person was either incredibly lucky or, more likely, incredibly dangerous.

"So then, Marcurio," the woman interrupted the mage's thoughts, "how do I go about finding this guild of criminals?"

"They have a well known hideout down in the tunnels beneath the city. I know were the entrance is, though I must say traipsing around in the muck with my new boots isn't my idea of party." It was true; Marcurio was rather fond of his new boots. He looked down at them fondly then and toed them against the edge of the bar. Lovely boots or not, he _really_ _shouldn't_ let them keep him from helping her just a bit more.

The woman smiled and shook her head, pale shocks of hair falling over her marred cheekbones. She waved her hand dismissively. "No, Marcurio. You've done enough. I would not have had the faintest idea to Uriel's whereabouts without your help."

"Ah, you misunderstand me," the mage said, "I'm going with you. I owe you more than a letter and I do not cherish being indebted to anyone so don't argue." He grinned at her, giving her his trademark smirk that had charmed many a woman. He was rather proud of himself for allowing his desire to help the one who had helped him to outweigh his urge to keep his shiny new boots clean.

The grin went mostly unacknowledged and she simply smiled affectionately at him in return. _As if I were twelve! Bah!_ He was an apprentice wizard, not some boy to patted on the head.

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. So long as you don't walk into any spike filled pits or filthy skeever dens, of course."

"Hmm, I try to avoid those things myself."

With that, she stood and gestured for him to follow her. Marcurio slipped from around the bar and fell in step by her side. It was an odd thing, walking beside her after twenty years. The last time he'd seen her, she had hoisted him up on her back and carried him with the ease of a small sack of potatoes. Small as she was she would probably drop straight to the ground should he try the same thing now.

In his best effort to hide his amusement, he motioned her out from the Bee and Barb and down towards the far end of the city. "Come along," he said, "It's this way."

Wordlessly, the woman trailed behind him, her steps silent atop the stone walkway beneath her feet. Even the bellowing cloak around her ankles seemed to make not a sound and Marcurio found himself wondering if the woman was really just that quiet or if her clothes had somehow been enchanted.

_Woman,_ he realized_, that's what I've been thinking of her as. _In his letters to her, he had always just called her Sep. Just Sep. It had been the name she had given him when he'd asked what to call her as a boy. "Sep" had seemed like such a good name to him at the time; it was short and he could remember it easily even at his young age. To him, it had been the name of a hero, _his _hero. Ever since he had seen her walk through the doors of the Bee and Barb it occurred to him that "Sep" had not once crossed his mind. She couldn't just be Sep to him any longer. He was no longer a child and standing at his side now, the Sep to whom he had written letters did not seem so distance.

"I'd like to ask you a question," the mage announced, craning his head back to grin at her over his shoulder.

The half-breed cocked one eyebrow that had been split in half by a thin, white scar. "You had many questions as a boy, Marcurio. Don't stop now."

"What is your real name?"

If she was surprised at all by his query, she did not show it. Then again, he supposed two hundred years was a long time to learn to school your emotions. One side of her mouth lifted in a small smile and she shook her head.

"'Sep' not good enough anymore?"

"Come now," Marcurio urged as they walked along, "No one's name is three letters long. That's just ridiculous."

"My name is seven letters actually," she rebuked gently. "The name my mother gave me is Septima, though I have not used it in a long, _long_ time."

"So you _are_ half Imperial then? Septima is a common name among Imperial women, you know."

Her step slowed and she stopped, crossing her arms over her chest and was…_smirking_? No one smirked at Marcurio. He smirked, not the other way around.

Meeting his eyes as he turned, she quietly said, "Your powers of deduction continue to amaze, Marcurio."

He cleared his throat roughly, muffling the sound behind a stiffly raised hand. "I'm quite astute, if you must know."

Again, that same scarred brow was raised and her smirk grew. "Indeed, it's quite impressive. For a mage."

Marcurio's jaw went slack as he gaped at her for a moment before his surprise was replaced with a loud harrumph. Crossing his arms, he snorted, "You don't like mages?"

"On the contrary, my father was a mage. I'm quite fond of them."

Somewhat placated, Marcurio bit back the biting retort he'd had in store if she had answered in the negative. He did not know why he had suddenly been so worried. Never in her letters had she seemed hostile to his choice of vocation. Swallowing his very nearly offended sensibilities, he said, "Well then, that's…good because this particular mage has been quite helpful to you."

The woman's grin finally faded and she regained her seriousness, her soft features settling once more. "Then will this astute, very helpful mage please continue on with said helpfulness?" She motioned along the path they had been walking moments earlier, indicating to him that he really should get a move on.

"I'm going, I'm going!" With a huff, Marcurio turned and resumed his walk through Riften. They crossed several of the little bridges that interlinked the city over its dingy waterways. Coming to the one that everyone in town knew to be near the entrance of the famed Ratway, he descended the precariously decayed wooden steps down to the lower level of the city.

"That's the door over there," he told her, pointing to the iron gate that blocked the dimly lit entrance.

Without a word, the woman slipped by him and crossed over the narrow planks above the stagnant water to reach the door that had been pointed out to her. Marcurio watched as she moved without so much as a wary glance at the creaking boards beneath her feet. Despite the nearly entrancing grace before him, the rank smell of the nearby fishery was quickly becoming too strong to withstand and he found himself silently urging her to hurry her graceful self up. He thought about voicing his annoyance aloud but that would have meant opening his mouth to the putrid air and if the woman's earlier quip hadn't offended him, he knew that the strong smell going down his throat would.

He heard the tell-tale _rattle-click_ of a lock being picked followed by the blessed hiss of rusted metal being pushed open. He was happy to see that the woman had already slipped into the Ratway as he rather daintily followed her path over the planks. One wrong step and he would go tumbling into that cold, suspiciously still water and all the expensive soap in Riften would not wash _that_ smell off of him for at least the next week. If he was already sacrificing his boots for her, he certainly did not care to add his personal hygiene to the list as well.

No sooner than the mage stumbled in after the woman that she had her hand clamped over his mouth, effectively silencing the complaint that had been on the tip of his tongue. Indignant, Marcurio began to mumble something between the spaces of the woman's fingers when his eyes suddenly fell on what had her on edge.

Two shadowed figures waited at the end of the tunnel, their conversation clear as it carried down the length of the stone walls. These were not Thieves Guild members but lowlifes that were likely taking refuge from the city guards in these dark tunnels.

Her dark eyes met his and she shook her head. "You're not squeamish are you?" she whispered.

He shook his head and shrugged. _Not particularly. _

"Good. Now, stay here for a moment."

She released him and stepped away, slinking through the darkness until Marcurio's eyes could no longer see her within the shadows. A few moments later she reappeared, leaping from the shadows and into the open mouth of the tunnel. The young mage at the opposite end could only stare as the woman he had admired from childhood seemed to literally flow around the two figures in a swirl of crimson cloth. One man went down as her pale hands found his meaty neck and jabbed a nerve with enough force to drop him. The second never had time to cry out be he too fell, though this time out of Marcurio's sight. He only heard it when the heavy body sagged against the floor. Without his command, his feet moved beneath him and he propelled himself through the muck of the tunnel until he reached the woman's side. Sure enough, at her feet lay the unmoving bodies of the two lowlifes.

"You killed them?" Marcurio gasped. It was not that it bothered him, just that he simply had not been expecting it.

He did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed when he saw the woman at his side shake her head. "No," she replied quietly, "They'll be sore but they'll wake again soon enough."

"Why?"

His own question surprised even him. He had asked it without thought.

Septima merely shrugged and turned to move towards the nearest tunnel. "There was no need."

The mage trailed after her wordlessly, glad to no longer be in the lead. They would have to find their way to the thieves den by trial and error. Something in his gut told him, however, that the little half-breed would have little trouble doing so. It had been twenty years since he had seen her in action and back then, his young mind had not registered the skill that she had just displayed. Living in Riften had exposed him to all sorts of sneaks and thieves, good and bad, but never had he seen anyone move so fluidly or disappear so completely. He opened his mouth to ask her how she was able to do so but closed it again quickly. Some things even he knew were better left unanswered.

Instead, requiring some sort of answer to his infernal curiosity, he asked, "Does your brother fight as you do?"

She did not stop to answer to him, nor did she even glance back as he spoke. "Not really," she replied, her words bouncing off the walls around her, "Uriel's quicker than I am. He's…better."

"Better?" The mage's voice rose in disbelief. "And quicker? He might be the Dragonborn but there's no way he could possibly be quicker. You moved like…well, I don't know what you moved like but it was something."

He heard her snort and saw her shake her head. "You haven't seen Uriel," was all she said.

That seemed to finish the short conversation and the two companions proceeded in silence for the next half hour. It did not take long for the woman to find what she suspected was the entrance to the main den. At least, it was if the sign swinging from the wall in the torch light was any marker at all. 'The Ragged Flagon' it read. Marcurio had heard of it in passing at the bar but had never really been concerned with it.

"That's an…interesting name. Uriel always liked things like that," the woman remarked as both she and the mage stood before the door.

"_Humph_. Classy," Marcurio grumbled, shrugging at her statement, unaffected. He reached for the handle and paused before pushing it open. Turning back to the woman flanking him, he grinned, "Well, I hope they're friendly."

With only an answering smile to ease his mind, he pushed open the door and the two marched straight into Riften's shadiest establishment, completely unannounced and with the sneaking suspicion that they were headed for trouble.

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_Alright, here's some general things that I'm going to go ahead and head off at the pass_

_1- Yes, Elder Scrolls lore does support the idea of "half-bloods," at least between elves and humans. From what I can tell they generally live a few hundred years and often resemble the race of the mother. For example...Karliah._

_2- That obscure language Sep is speaking at the beginning of the chapter? Yeah, I pulled that out of a hat. It's a crazy mix of random syllables from Gaelic and Latin. If any of you happen to speak whatever the ancient native tongue of Morrowind is, feel free to translate that prayer for me._

_3- If Sep seems a little obscure, she's supposed to be that way._

_4- Yeah, this story features the Dark Brotherhood too but it's in a different way than MLOT, promise. And I just love the twins too much to not include them as well. _

_Anyway, that's it for now. I hope you'd enjoyed this first chapter. Please, let me know what you think. Reviews are always helpful since ya'll seem to catch things that I never notice. _


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